A Bride for His Majesty s Pleasure

‘No, I am the one who was the fool. But not any more, Max,’ Ionanthe cut across him bitterly.

Before she could continue Tomas was approaching them, looking self-conscious and uncertain as he addressed himself to Max.

‘Highness, the people are asking if you will lead them in the sled race tomorrow, Christmas Eve morning.’

‘What sled race is this?’ Max asked, looking at Ionanthe. But she shook her head, leaving Tomas to explain whilst her heart sank like a lead weight inside her chest. Her father had led the traditional sled race, and now she wanted to protest in bitter anger that Max should be asked to stand in her father’s place.

‘It is a tradition of the estate that on the day before Christmas there is a sled race from the top of the ridge behind the castle, and that the race is begun by our lord,’ Tomas was explaining eagerly to Max. ‘For many years we have not had anyone here to do it, and the old ones are saying that it will bring us luck to have our Prince commence the race for us.’

The people—her people—were showing their approval of Max and their willingness to accept him. Ionanthe felt very alone. Alone and unloved, deceived and misjudged.

Max had misjudged her and hurt her, but she had also misjudged him, honesty compelled her to admit. Yes, that was true—but at least he had always known who she was. She hadn’t hidden her true self away from him. She hadn’t let him talk about his dreams knowing that in comparison to her achievements they were as a child’s drawing compared to the work of a master. That was what hurt so badly: knowing that he had excluded her from such an important part of his life; knowing that he had already done all those things she longed so much to do.

Now she could admit to herself what she hadn’t really known before. That it was important to her that they met and recognised one another as equals. In her grandfather’s eyes she had always been a poor substitute for Eloise. Knowing that, growing up with it, had diminished her. She couldn’t allow herself to love a man whose very existence and achievements could not help but do the same.

Their marriage would have to be brought to an end. There was no purpose to it now, after all. Max was the perfect man to rule Fortenegro and to give its people all that they needed. He was also the best role model there could be for his son. Max—the Max she now knew him to be—could achieve far more than she had ever envisaged being able to achieve. There was no purpose in her staying—no need, no role for her, nothing. Ionanthe prayed that fate had been wiser than she had herself, and that she had not yet conceived Max’s child.

Max looked towards Ionanthe for guidance as to how he should answer Tomas’s request, but her expression was remote and cold. Tomas’s interruption had come at the wrong time.

‘I shall be pleased to begin the race,’ he told Tomas, when Ionanthe continued to ignore his silent request for advice.

The beaming smile with which Tomas received his reply told Max that at least one person was pleased with his response.

She would have to wait until they returned to the palace—until she was sure that she was not carrying Max’s child—to inform Max that she wanted their marriage brought to an end, Ionanthe decided. Or maybe she should just leave the island and then tell him. Although of course that would be cowardly. And what if she had conceived? The frantic despairing leap of her heart told her how easy it would be for her to clutch at the excuse to remain married to him.

How Max must have inwardly laughed at her when she had confided to him her admiration for the head of Veritas, unknowingly extolling his virtues, for all the world like some naive teenager filled with hero-worship. All she had to hold on to now was her pride. But she had survived before without love, without anyone to turn to.

That had been different, though. Then she had had hope. Now there was nothing left for her to hope for other than that she did not make even more of a fool of herself than she already had.

Max had married her because his very nature impelled him to want to improve the lot of the islanders. Every move he had made had to have been part of a carefully orchestrated plan designed to eliminate what stood in the way of his progress and to move forward with his plans. She couldn’t argue with or object to his underlying motivation—after all, she had married him with her own agenda. She couldn’t either logically or clinically refuse to understand why he’d had to be so suspicious of her. But pretending to want her—and he had done that, even if he had not said the words—allowing her to believe that they shared a mutual desire for one another, that was unforgivable.

And she never would forgive herself for believing even momentarily that he did want her. Hadn’t she known all along that he had been married to Eloise? Hadn’t she known that there were questions she should ask, doubts she should have? But she had wilfully ignored the inner voice that had been trying to protect her.

Whenever she had asked Max about Eloise he had answered that his marriage to her sister had been ‘different.’

But it hadn’t. He had married them both for exactly the same reason. He had married them because he believed that marriage within their family would help him to gain the acceptance of the islanders and protect their mineral rights. As a person she meant nothing to him. She was simply a means to an end.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘SO YOU are not going to watch the sled race, then?’ Ariadne kneaded the dough on which she was working with a fierce pummelling motion that matched the ferocity of her expression.

‘No,’ Ionanthe confirmed.

‘Hah—I always said that you had your grandfather’s stubborn pride, and look what that got him! So you and the Prince have had a few sharp words? That’s no reason for you to be sitting here in my kitchen sulking.’

‘I know you mean well, Ariadne, but you don’t understand.’

Ariadne gave a cross snort.

‘I understand well enough that our good Prince deserves better than a sulking wife—especially when anyone can see how much he thinks of you.’

Ionanthe shook her head grimly. ‘He married me because of who I am, Ariadne…’

‘Well, I dare say he did. A man would be a fool not to look about him for a wife who can bring some benefit to a marriage. But you can’t tell me that those soft looks he keeps giving you when he doesn’t think anyone else is looking don’t mean anything, because they do. Look at the way he went out and got you that Christmas tree. It’s as plain as plain can be how much he wants to please you, and a man doesn’t do that for no reason. I’ll tell you now that your father would have had something to say if your mother had behaved like you’re doing—showing him up in front of everyone instead of supporting him. I thought our Prince had chosen himself a good wife in you, but now I’m beginning to think I was wrong. You aren’t just his wife, and he isn’t just your husband. He’s o

ur Prince and you are our Princess. That means a lot to folk like us—even if it doesn’t to you.’

Ionanthe flinched under the lash of Ariadne’s outspoken criticism. The old lady saw things in black and white, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an element of truth in what she was saying.